The Tear Collector
by cowgirlfromhell
Summary: Dean Winchester walks into a bar...Mild spoilers for season 4


Dean Winchester lifted the stubby low-ball glass to his lips and, tilting back his head, let the remaining smooth, amber colored whiskey slide effortlessly down his throat. Setting the glass down on the bar, with a finger, he indicated he was ready for another.

He looked at the reflection in the mirrored bar back and squinted at the girl sitting directly to his right. Having already rebuffed his attempt to engage her in simple conversation, she continued to nurse a beer sighing softly every few minutes, her sad eyes shimmering with unshed tears and he began to wonder, when had bars become such sad places?

Taking a sip of his refilled drink, he thought about how scared he had been when the fire had destroyed his house and with it the simple and safe life he'd known as a child. And when days later, scared to death and at his wits end, his dad had shouted at him to stop crying like a baby and to just take care of Sammy.

And he remembered the doctor saying, "Okay, that's it, everybody. I'll call it. Time of death –- 10:41 AM."

When had bars become so depressing? he wondered and remembered clutching his brother in his arms and saying to him, "I'm gonna take care of you. We're gonna get you patched up and you'll be as good as new" knowing full well that they were empty vows and that he'd had to admit that even though he'd always tried to protect him, keep him safe because he felt it was his responsibility, that he'd screwed up the job and always let's down the people he loved.

When had bars become so distressing? he questioned and remembered how his blood tinged tears had pooled up and run from the corners of his eyes as he hung, screaming for Sam to help him, and how, much later, his tears had flowed so hard that he could barely see the smile on Alastair's face when he had, at last, picked up the razor.

He thought about how he finally admitted to Sam that he remembered everything that had happened to him in the pit but that he wasn't going to talk about it because a little heart-to-heart, a little sharing and caring wasn't going to change anything. There was no forgetting or making it better because it was in his head forever and he threw it in his brother's face and told him, "You wouldn't understand. And I can never make you understand."

And he painfully recalled the day he finally told Sam that it had not been four months but forty years and that they had sliced and carved, and torn at him for thirty of those years until he couldn't stand it anymore and he had climbed down and started ripping souls apart, loosing count of how many. And he remembered how he had wished in vain to not feel anything.

When had bars become such dismal places? he asked himself when the girl next to him got up and walked out sobbing uncontrollably and he thought back to the day he told Sam that he was worse than an animal and that he did it for the sheer pleasure because the pain he felt slipped away and that now, no matter how many people he saved, he couldn't change what he'd done or fill the hole inside of him.

And he remembered his brother had once said "Dean, look you know I didn't mean the things I said back there, right? That it was just the siren's spell talking?" and he had lied to him, not "good" at all with what Sammy was doing, what Sammy was becoming.

Ordering up a third drink, he remembered the pain of losing his father and Sammy and how he'd wished he'd gone with Tessa instead and how he had watched Pamela die right in front of his eyes and he remembered telling Sammy that he was tired of burying friends.

When had bars become so heartbreaking? he demanded **w**hen his thoughts took him back to Alastair and the things he had said. Things like, "I had your pop on my rack for close to a century," and "John Winchester made quite a name for himself. A hundred years. After each session I'd make him the same offer I made you: I'd put down my blade if he picked one up but he said nein, each and every time ... I couldn't break him. Pulled out all the stops. But John, he was made of something unique, the stuff of heroes. And then came Dean. Dean Winchester. I thought I was up against it again. But, daddy's little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh?"

Dean caressed the nickel-plated colt hidden in his pocket and wondered how he could ever forget, "And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break," or Castiel telling him "The righteous man who begins it... is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it," only to inform the angel, "Well then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alastair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not strong enough. I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me."

Slipping off the safety he remembered seeing his brother drink demon blood and how he'd told him, "What do you want me to say, that I'm disappointed? Yeah, I am. But mostly I'm just tired, man. I'm done. I am just done," as he lured him into the panic room.

He also remembered how much Sammy's heartfelt "I'm sorry," hurt him as he and his brother clutched each other when Lucifer rose despite and because of all that he had done and he thought that maybe it was a mistake, maybe he wasn't the chosen one.

Dean knew that Sam could go on without him, would probably do a better job of it if he wasn't around to fuck things up, to hold Sam back, and his hand shook visibly as he stared at the gun in the mirror's reflection, never realizing that he had started to weep...but the bartender had.

As beautiful to him as she had been handsome to the girl, she leaned forward and opening her hand, revealed a small crystal vile in her palm that she brought it up to Dean's eyes just as he brought the gun up to his mouth.

But before she could harvest her bitter crop, a shotgun blast rent the air and amid a shower of glass and waterfalls of liquor, she disappeared in a cloud of darkness.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked quickly breaking the shotgun open and ejecting the shells onto the floor and reloading.

Dean swiped roughly at his face but he couldn't hide the fact that he'd been bawling like a baby and before he could put on a poker face or minimize the situation or his feelings with a sarcastic comment or a lame ass joke, Sam saw his brother's raw pain and it chilled him to the bone.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean asked in confusion.

"Dude, it was a Tear Collector, a banshee that can only grieve through other people's sorrow," his brother told him and Dean began to understand what had happened to him, to the girl and to all the others in the bar.

"There was a girl in here..."

She's with Bobby. He talked her down off the bridge railing. She told us you were here."

Standing up, the gun still held loosely in his hand, Dean turned to his brother and Sam just stared down at it.

"You weren't gonna shoot her, we're you?" he finally asked rhetorically.

Dean just shook his head. He couldn't explain what it had felt like to sit at the bar, his whole life reduced to nothing but self-doubt, self loathing, loss and just plain misery. It had been more than enough to drive him to suicide even without the help of the Tear Collector.

And as if the banshee were still alive, the pain he'd felt when Dean had died returned and the thought of loosing him again filled Sam with terror and he said to his brother passionately, "Dean, whatever happened in the past...it doesn't matter anymore and whatever we do in the future might not make a difference but swear to me we're gonna do it together, you and me."

And Dean reached out and held on to him tightly and whispered, "You and me, Sammy, you and me."


End file.
